


Carry On

by ParadoxR



Series: Core Value [2]
Category: Stargate (1994), Stargate SG-1
Genre: Episode: s01e01/2 Children of the Gods, Episode: s02e21 1969, F/M, Military, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadoxR/pseuds/ParadoxR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now George just needs to get someone to vouch for a recently-suicidal black ops retiree without mentioning time travel. Standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Despite His Failures

**Author's Note:**

> Completely spoils “1969”. This is set during “Unknown Soldiers” but doesn’t reference it. Thanks to my beta, bethanyactually.

Major General George Hammond thanks his driver and steps out onto the expansive Pentagon walkway. God, he hates this place. And that’s from back when he had easy assignments like running policymaking for the world’s largest military space program. Now he’s just here to find someone who’ll convince the Joint Chiefs of Staff that a recently-suicidal retired black ops colonel, originally recalled _because_ he was mentally unstable, should retain a command in the SGC.

This should be easy. George frowns across the immaculate lawn and follows his cheery escort. He’d fought with different explanations throughout his entire trip. Not just the Chulak mess, but O’Neill in general. _‘I do realize he’s not the most compelling choice, gentlemen, but you have to understand that I saw him as an SG mission commander when I was a second lieutenant at Cheyenne. Yes, he was in the field as a full colonel in 1969. I swear I’m not crazy.’_ Though to be honest, the thought’s crossed George’s mind more than once over the last thirty years. At least until he saw then-Lieutenant Carter, and the look on Langford’s face. And then Doctor Jackson, and O’Neill and then suddenly Teal’c.

No; this is actually happening.

George blows a breath into the plush Pentagon hallway. He’s not crazy. Though maybe a little, considering that assigning a recently-suicidal retired colonel and an indispensable doctor of theoretical astrophysics to the same small expeditionary unit is probably not what the President of the United States had in mind when he gave George nine teams.

But he has to do it. George has managed to follow a pretty strict policy of noninvolvement since 1969, but now’s the time. Carter is due to pin on major in four years, and even if the Giza fiasco does somehow slow it to five, that’s not a lot of leeway. George has no idea how long it’ll take to fix all this, and she’d clearly been working with O’Neill for quite a while back then. He needs to get them together—at least reconciled—basically now. Somehow. Teal’c is trickier, though. He’s probably got more time and should really learn English first. And Doctor Jackson certainly needs at least reservist infantry training. God forbid George let the good doctor get killed before Carter makes major. He isn’t even sure what that would mean. And he wants his money back.

_Goddammit, O’Neill._ So here George is, just shy of retirement and scraping the halls of the Pentagon looking for someone to vouch for the colonel without mentioning time travel. Despite the mess O’Neill made in taking over Giza in the least competent way possible. And picking a team that didn’t know anything about it. And deliberately alienating all the people they now need to recall. _God, what the hell were you thinking, Colonel?_ And making dangerously unfounded assumptions about the balance of power of a galaxy. And lying about and burying crucial intelligence, and letting Giza fall apart behind him. And giving George four entirely unnecessary letters to write, notwithstanding whether O’Neill could’ve saved his Abydos lieutenants.

George buries a wince. He’d looked up to O’Neill as a young man, and thoughts like that never fully fade. He doesn’t want to put this all on him, despite his failures and whatever he did to jump to the top of another two-star’s blacklist. The ‘why’ there is another hard one to crack. Winston West gives generals—gives the military—a bad name, but this really must’ve been a step beyond. And there’s no shortage of controversial, even suicidal, ex-black ops officers. No, Abydos went to the man George met thirty years ago for a reason. O’Neill made this mess for a reason. But damned if George knows why. Heck, he’s still struggling to unravel O’Neill’s suicidal negligence from West’s manipulation.

The secretary looks up brightly. “General Luera can see you right now, sir.”

“Thank you.” Hammond nods with automatic amiability and steps through a refreshingly minimalist D-ring office. Hopefully O’Neill is right this time.

Luera stands up beside his too-large desk. “Hammond, is it? Good to meet you.”

George takes up the handshake. Callused grip. “Good to meet you as well, Luera.” They sit, and George lets his peripherals check the office. Again, understated.

“Please call me Clark.” His smile is surprisingly genuine from behind the oaken desk.

George sees why this guy is more O’Neill’s type than most. More so than George himself, actually. “Name’s George, Clark.” He reviews the bulky younger man and his dress uniform. Army intelligence, presumably for Special Forces. Commendable combat record, strong headquarters tours. O’Neill might have nailed this one.

“What can I do you for, George? You said this is about Jack O’Neill?”

“Yes, it is.” George lets that hang for a moment. He knows the colonel is a divisive figure in the outer Pentagon rings, but his picture’s not clear enough to start laying cards on it. _What’d you do to almost get yourself killed by a two-star, Colonel?_

Clark just nods. Hammond called this meeting; he better deal his own flop.

George keeps his smile. “What do you think of him?”

He lets his eyebrows rise naturally. “This is a recommendation?” And here Clark half expected it to be on the same mess Jack made last year.

“It is.” Not a recommendation to himself, but George’ll drop that shoe later. _By the way, I need you to tell this directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff._

Clark nods thoughtfully. “Smart guy.”

Phew. George gestures in what should look like natural agreement.

“Some controversial views on prepping for future contingencies. Stubborn about them.” Clark watches the older man’s jaw. “Has trouble separating policy disagreements from personal affronts.” Has trouble not _making_ policy disagreements personal affronts.

George plays a grimace. “Thank you. And what about combat?”

That earns a full right eyebrow. “What sort of command?”

George grimaces. “I’m afraid that’s classified.” And that’s going to be a problem.

Clark purses his lips. “George, this is the office of the Army Deputy Chief of Staff for Intelligence.” That has to be a joke. Power play? _Flyboys._

George releases a legitimately apologetic smile. “I understand that. I’m sorry.”

He blows out a breath. Twenty-five years in intel, Clark can see that’s genuine. And nuts. “You need me to vouch for a retired colonel that I haven’t worked with in six years for a command you can’t tell me anything about.”

George schools his face thoughtfully. “I can tell you I want him to get imminent danger pay.” Which is a whole different fight.

Clark’s glad he’s finished with his third cup of coffee. “A _forward operating site_?” This can’t be serious. “A two-star Air Force general needs me to vouch for putting Jack in command of an FOS that’s classified _above_ the Deputy Chief of Staff for Intelligence?”

To Luera’s credit, that sounds more astounded than affronted. George stays frank in the plush seat. “To the Joint Chiefs.”

He just blinks. Damn, this guy is good. _And he’s playing a hell of a hand._ Clark feels no envy for the older man. “Vouch directly to the JCS.”

George nods honestly. He’s flipped all his cards. “Yes.”

He blows out a breath. “I’m gonna need to talk to Jack.”

George nods. He’s already made that call.


	2. You’re Not Anymore

Jack leans back in his chair and studies his shoes again.

_“It’s all right, you know.”_

_He shakes his head at their tablecloth. “No, it’s not.” It’s basically dereliction of duty. “I was a terrible CO.”_

_She frowns. “Yes, well, you’re not anymore.”_

_Jack snorts. No, now he’s retired._

_She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”_

_He looks up at her. “I should’ve found you last year. Made sure you knew.” He closes his eyes on the pictures of the DHD, the staff weapons. The four dead lieutenants and five murdered airmen. Sha’re, Skaara. The cartouche._

_Samantha smiles and changes into…something else. “Yes, well, as much as I would’ve enjoyed that.” Her hand entwines over his. “I forgive you.”_

_“Colonel?”_

_He squeezes it._

“Colonel O’Neill?”

Crap. “Yes?” _Yeah, right, loser._

“The generals are ready for you, Colonel.”

Jack nods at the speakerphone in his borrowed office. “Right, thanks.” Damn stupid conference calls. He needs to go see…people.

The hold tone clicks off. Jack leans forward at the old desk and scrubs a hand over his newly clean shave. _God,_ _stop thinking about it._ “General Hammond, sir?”

“General Luera has some questions for you, Colonel.”

Well at least that’s something. Jack’s not sure he wants whatever it is, but it’s good to hear from an actual brain in Washington. “Good afternoon, General.”

“Just call me Clark, Jack.” Heck, when they met they were both wearing oak leaves. And Jack should have stars.

Jack closes his latest files and braces his elbows on the borrowed desk. “Yes, sir, Clark.”

The old intelligence officer snorts. “How ya doing, Jack?”

He shrugs. “Alive, sir.” Which unfortunately is not at all the predictable response it should be. And is entirely unlike eight of Jack’s would-be subordinates.

Clark frowns. “You pass your eval yet?” Which means more ‘do you actually want this’ than ‘are you stable’, since Jack’s training would pass any eval automatically if he wanted it to.

“Yes.” As if that means something.

“And how’s Sara?”

“Divorced.” Dating, Jack thinks.

 _Aw shit._ “And you’re up for this?”

He actually considers that carefully. It’s stupid, really. Jack’s got less than a week off-world, and the military is full of qualified officers that didn’t recently go suicidal and fuck up a crucial civilian lab suited for, at best, a lieutenant colonel. Heck, Giza and Abydos mistakes aside, Jack _still_ wouldn’t be his own first choice even within the Air Force. Because seriously, what kind of coincidence would that be? It’s not like that’s why West pulled him off his dead son’s bedspread.

Jack folds his arms on the ache and leans forward. “I want to help, Clark.” He really does. And he thinks he probably could. But that doesn’t explain why Hammond has decided to personally pound the pavement in DC rallying for his support. Not that the pilot-turned-spacelift guy could really understand their ensuing ground war. _As if you do, you fuck-up._ But he does, now. _Really?_

Clark exhales. He and Jack always tended to land on the same side of whatever mess blew up that week. But this, whatever it is, must be _huge_. He’s honestly not sure the colonel’s even ready again. “Jack…” He could very easily get people killed if that’s the case. Hammond must have other choices. “I’m sorry, Jack.” Clark sighs and meets the ranking general’s eyes over his phone. “I can say you’re a great mind to have around, but I can’t vouch for your command of a frontline unit that _I_ don’t even know about directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” Somehow he doubts George has gotten any takers on that one.

Jack nods. An hour hanging around this stupid phone and nothing but the expected response. _Welcome back to the Pentagon._ “I understand. Thank you, Clark.”

The new one-star stands up with George. “No problem, bud.” The generals clasp hands. “Good luck.”

And won’t they need it.


	3. Not Letting Him Go

“Hammond, when was the last time that the guy who happened to be standing in front of you in the beginning was actually the best person for the job?”

George stays standing despite the open seat. “I can’t say I’ve ever been that lucky, sir.”

The Chief of Staff looks up from behind his desk. “Me neither.” Particularly not when said person is a recently suicidal, ‘gently’ retired fuck-up. He sighs and sets aside his other files. “Sit, George.”

So he does.

“I’m willing to accept that this guy—O’Neill—is not a complete dunce. I much prefer that theory, actually. He did spend twenty-two years working up to group-level commands in our Air Force.” Ron closes the personnel file and leans back into his well-windowed office. “But as such, I also have a number of officers in similar boats. Much better boats, in fact, if what you tell me about Abydos is true.”

George nods obligingly. He can’t argue on the facts, at least not for Abydos.

“And do you know what that number is?”

George squeezes his service cap discretely. “I’m sorry?” It’s an old stress relief trick from before he had to defend recently-suicidal colonels to the Air Force Chief of the Staff. _Glad O’Neill didn’t tell you that one in 1969?_

“The number of neither dunce nor ‘O’Neill-level fucked up’ Field Grade commanders we have in our fine Air Force. How many?”

“Around fourteen thousand.” It’s comfortably direct.

“Fourteen thousand well trained folks. Good guys, most of them. Some of them are brilliant. And how many would you say have the background for a unit like the SGC? Special ops, integrating technology and ground combat, versed in international security strategy, etcetera.” Ron gestures forward as if this is a normal question to ask. Which for this office, it sort of is. There’s no way he’s going all four years here.

“Probably four hundred.” He’s still candid.

Ron nods. “A little generous maybe, but alright. And how much are you asking for?”

“An even billion for the first year.” George stays comfortable and doesn’t fidget with the folder in front of him.

“An even billion, to stand up and organization that died under you. That you’re now claiming is vital to the security of the planet, based on a corrected report that your golden colonel lied about. A report in which he failed not only to disclose what he did and did not do, but to report information that could’ve been critical to the success of your organization and the safety of the galaxy as we know it.”

“His accurate report wouldn’t have been enough to do that, Chief.” Plus the four-star doesn’t actually believe in the Goa’uld threat, but you get a lot of room with eight stars on your shoulders.

“No, you’re right.” Ron puffs, letting himself be visibly angry for a few moments. “That’s from the second mission. The second mission, which, by my reading, turned up an awful lot of what the first mission should’ve.” He opens his top folder and starts laying out photos. “O’Neill had an alien mothership sitting in front of him, and not only didn’t he get anything useful about it and elect to hide what he did know, he failed upfront to even _requisition_ necessary reconnaissance resources.” Ron huffs audibly and looks over the glossy alien technologies littering his desk. What the hell did they get themselves into? The fur-star levels the younger general a pointed look. “I mean I know we’re fighter jocks, George, but that doesn’t sound wrong to you?”

Damn yes. “With the understanding that he was acting on orders.”

Ron glares up in correction. “With the understanding that he was retired as being unfit for duty and then deliberately recalled _because_ he was unstable enough to execute those idiotic orders.”

“Yes, sir.” George has never been one to naturally second-guess himself.

“And so you bring him to me.”

“Yes, sir.” There’s a first time for everything.

“And ask for a billion dollars to stand up the President’s nine teams. A billion for nine, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

Fuck; this’d be almost laughable if it weren’t so goddamn dangerous. But how many times has Ron said that in his career? “You know we’re in a drawdown, right?”

“I do.”

He leans forward and scrubs his head in his hands. “Of course you do, George. I’m not here to patronize you.” He shoots the younger man a very clear _don’t-sir-me_ look. “But you see that I have a problem. Four hundred candidates, a eighty-three million a month, nine teams. One former commander of a defunct organization who decided to nuke something he didn’t understand. And six billion people who want to wake up tomorrow not enslaved by aliens.”

“West did this, Chief.” George delivers it by rote and tries to ignore how much both West and O’Neill piss him off. _‘If it’s dangerous, blow it up’?_

Ron somehow manages to darken the room. “Major General Hammond.” _You know better._ “Colonel Jonathan O’Neill is—or was—a legal commander in your Air Force. My Air Force. And well into a career that could’ve had him running world wars and holding personal responsibility for eight hundred thousand airmen. He had a duty to fight for due diligence, and I can only assume he knew that obligation. As do we. Do you disagree?”

“I don’t.”

Ron nods put keeps the mien. “Then please explain to me why I’m not feeding him to the same sharks that ate West.” He leans forward more candidly. Honestly. “Because they are hungry, George. And I have people in my service who are worth fighting for.”

 _So do I._ “Chief, I’ve always liked to think that our service didn’t define its people by the worst mistake they’ve ever made.” George holds his eyes. “Or the worst thing that’s ever happened to them.”

Ron huffs a sort of agreement. “Only when they do so themselves.” He grimaces and leans sideways more naturally. “Don’t get me wrong, George. I don’t know how the man is still walking, talking. I’d be gone without my daughters.” He exhales at the file in front of him. “And that’s what concerns me.”

“I understand your concern.” And doesn’t he. It’s almost enough to make George wait this one out. Almost. “But I’m not letting him go.”

“Have you thought about your own replacement?”

Well that was discreet. “I haven’t made any calls yet.” George hands him the folder.

Ron takes it with an ironic smirk. “Is it just me or are you less worried about keeping yourself around than you are O’Neill?”

George lifts a half-smile. “Like you said, Chief, we’re fighter jocks. The person who happens to be standing in the field is rarely the right guy for the job.”

“Statistically never,” Ron inserts. He pushes up his glasses and flips through the pages.

“Statistically never.” George waits to get the eyes back. “So all I ask is that you do your due diligence in selecting the right person.”

Snort. “I do want to minimize discontinuity for these folks.” Ron smirks. “Finding someone, approvals from the President and other Chiefs, moving him, transitioning the two of you…Might take two months in the current mess.”

“Sounds about right, Chief.”

Ron leans back towards the setting sun and slow-counts to sixty. They are still making their generals well enough, at least. “Longoria.”

That shoe took a surprisingly long time to drop. “What about him, sir?”

“For O’Neill. I’ll give him to you.” He passes the file to George. “Multi-team mission commander through Desert Storm, Combat Analysis Division Chief, politico-military strategist, National Security Council staff, commanded four hundred guys running Special Tactics and Combat Control squadrons. Did his third master’s at the Advanced School. He’s on his way to be a National Defense Fellow over the river, but I’ll redirect him.” Ron looks up on the sell. “He’s a younger O’Neill without the psych evaluation, George. Take him.”

He really wasn’t expecting it to be this hard. “I appreciate that.”

Ron squeezes his square forehead. “But you’re keeping O’Neill either way.”

George nods. It’s a lot harder that he thought.

“Hammond, I do not appreciate sitting on the rejected side of the table from my own subordinates.” He pauses half a beat but can tell George isn’t falling for it. He huffs. “Longoria’s a light colonel. You have a different full-bird yet?”

George can relish that change in topic. “Yes.” Thank God _._ “From Giza. Dalhberg’s a new promote, but his tour running Groom Lake for me is almost up. Already being handled.”

The Chief of Staff grunts. “So we’re sidelining a black ops vet for program manager that just pinned on his eagles.”

Funny, that’s exactly what George is banking on.

Ron shakes his head. “To manage a war of interplanetary annihilation, by your own reckoning.” He’s not sold on that one yet, personally. “I know we cut our teeth on Cold War apocalypse, George, but I have to say this is not what I thought I was preparing for.”

“Me neither, sir.” Which, again, is what George is trying to address. Even if he keeps the SGC for now, someone needs to replace him eventually. And if it’s O’Neill, the colonel damn well better be doing something besides running around like a freaking superhero on a four-man team. You’ve got a galactic war to figure out how to run, Colonel; welcome back to the senior officer corps.

Ron continues to weigh the younger general for a full minute. He still can’t tell what the man is working on, but Ron didn’t become a commander by undermining good people. People trained as well as possible for a job that’s as hard as it gets. Consider that another word from the wise for O’Neill. “You’re really gonna silver bullet this guy, aren’t you?”

George nods. “Yes.” And O’Neill’s going to pay through the nose with interest for it.

Ron grimaces and hands him a final folder. “Colonel Davidson ended up with the 724th when O’Neill retired. Make sure you get his ear, at the very least.”

Now that he’s grateful for. “I certainly will.” Plus, it’s worth knowing who O’Neill originally beat out for a group command. George cracks the folder open. Two squadron commands (via deputy commander), two master’s, Air and Army Command/Staff Colleges, Air War College, Joint Staff College, Checkmate Strategist, Wilson Fellow. George nods and looks up. Huh. Maybe O’Neill’s not so bad for this after all.

Ron sighs tiredly at his junior commander. “You know, even if I wanted to do this for you, I wouldn’t have the capital.”

George lets himself loosen slightly. “I know.”

“And I don’t want to.”

He puffs a laugh. “I know that, too, sir.” George really doesn’t envy the Chief his previous year.

Ron joins the smile. “It’s your unit for now, George.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “If you want him, put him there. But it’s not gonna be with legal command orders. Not so long as the sharks are after me and the whole damn service, too.”

Funny, that’s still exactly what George was thinking.

“And, George.” Ron lowers the wall between them a litter farther. “If he does do anything but shit rainbows for the rest of his tenure, I will throw him in. And I can’t claim to protect you from it. Or myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Public Figure Disclaimer: these were the real public records of Gen. Ronald Fogleman, then-Lt. Col. Michael Longoria, and Col. Matthew Davidson (anachronism). I typically stop shy of this in my real-world allusions, but this felt important. Fogleman is eight months shy of retiring-effective-immediately for Khobar Towers et al (hence ‘sharks’). And given that we’re about to spend ten years with Jack, I think it’s important to understand what “colonel” means in the literal sense.


End file.
